Dance
by The Silver Feathered Raven
Summary: One shot. When Tenten dances, she brings herself one step closer to death.


When Tenten dances, she brings herself one step closer to death.

She's a very good dancer, every step precise, every flourish in the right place. She's captivating, arms outstretched, mouth curved in a smile, her eyes half closed as she spins. There's a fluidity to her dance, and even a mistake can still be beautiful. And when she dances with a partner, the dance becomes something so breathtaking and flowing and deadly that one can almost forget that she's a kunoichi, a highly skilled killer.

But only almost.

When she dances, her feet trace shallow paths on the ground, making small prints where her shoes press into the earth. She likes making the experience last, so her touches are gentle, so that her partner must remain as fast as she is, if he wishes to continue leading. Sometimes she spins out of reach, feet crossing and uncrossing as she twists around, laughing as her movements catch the other dancer off guard, moving back in with one graceful swoop, a hand pressing against his arm, one to the side of his waist, before darting away again, leading the other in a spirited chase as they try to keep up with her.

She dislikes dancing alone; when she does, the dance loses most of its meaning. When she dances alone there is still the grace, but never the same intensity, never the same look in the eyes of those around her. She can move her arms and her feet, repeating patterns and motions, but it is never the same as when she dances with another. She never feels as light, never feels as excited, and her feet drag just a little. It is never as good when she dances alone.

But with another, every touch is wonderful, every breath rapid, every movement done quickly and expertly. A hand at her back and she gasps as she feels metal against her skin, but smiles when her partner realizes that she has come too close. She brings a hand up, running it down the other's chest, watching their eyes and she smiles through red stained lips, moving away from them again, dipping down, turning her body as she moves around them, one hand going to her own waist, paper fluttering around her in the wind.

They almost always realize that they cannot keep up with her, and most fall away before she has a chance to enjoy herself. Sometimes, the dance ends too soon, and Tenten finds herself wanting someone else to come, so that she can dance again. Some find it odd, that she likes dancing so much. She has been asked, time and time again, why she continues to dance, and why she smiles when she does. She never is able to answer them fully, but a few understand. The older ones, the women who have experienced the dance before, who loved it for a time before moving on.

Sometimes, they tell Tenten to stop dancing. That once you begin, it is hard to stop. That sometimes the steps become to hard, and the breaths to ragged, and then the color washes away from everything. Sometimes, Tenten laughs when she hears them say that. There's always red, she says, and they look at her sadly, because they understand her all too well and are able to hear the bitterness held tightly in her voice.

Sometimes, she nods sadly when they talk to her, knowing that the dance took them too far, made them grow up too quickly, and that she is growing up too quickly as well. There are times when she wants to stop dancing, but every time she remembers how wonderful the steps are.

She takes her time when dancing, even if the steps are fast. There was a time when she couldn't dance, but that time is hard to remember for her, even painful. Now, when she dances and watches the pain in her partner's eyes as she whirls past them one last time, knotting her hands with their's, pulling them forward, pressing her body against them and whispering into their ears, she tries to forget that she was once a young girl who didn't know a single step.

Sometimes, there's a moment of panic when she dances, when her foot slips or her hand falters and her partner brings themselves closer to her. When that happens, there is always a chance that she will lose, that her dance will break and she will fall. She's fallen a few times, but never too hard, and each time she is able to get back up again, one way or another. When she wipes away smirks on her partner's face with one swift flick of her wrist, she smiles and watches as blood drips. She likes to think that it makes a rhythm, and even when she watches them waver she continues to dance.

There are times when she cries afterwards, slumping down beside them and covering her face with bloodied hands. Sometimes, it's for herself. Sometimes, it's for her partner. But she rarely cries, and when she does no one sees her.

When she dances, her hair often comes loose, falling from its bindings and whipping around her in time with her movements. Her hair is long, and so many times it will be covered in blood when the dance is over, just like her hands, just like her clothes, just like the ground around the dancers. She brushes it behind her ear when the dance is over, ignoring the metallic smell and the way that it clings to her fingers. She gathers her weapons, returning them to pouches and other hidden places, saving the ones she gave to her partner for last. These she takes carefully, watching blood drip down metal, splashing onto the pale skin below her. Her lips curve into a sick sort of smile, and sometimes she licks the blood drenched objects, just because she can. She lost herself in the dance years before, and she just continues to fall deeper and deeper into it, because when she dances her own blood pounds in her ears even as her partner's blood spills across the ground. Because there is never certainty in the dance, but always a deadly grace that she enjoys so much.

And so she continues to dance, her knives flying, her body spinning, her blood hot within her. She watches as bodies fall, many of them, and she is numb, only caring about the dance. Sometimes, she shakes, late in the night where no one can see her, with blankets pulled tightly around her, but she can't make herself warm. When she washes her hands, she sees red in the water, and she closes her eyes then, hoping that it will go away. It never does, and she doesn't think that it ever will. But still, she dances.

When Tenten dances, she brings herself one step closer to death. Whose death, she doesn't know, but even though it could be her own, she almost doesn't care. Because she loves the dance, and it has entangled her so much that she can no longer get out.

* * *

A/N: And, of course, I step back into my habit of writing slightly darker things. I had fun writing this, even though I had to keep checking to make sure that I didn't slip into another tense (which I think that I still did in places). This little story came from a rather spontaneous idea that appeared while listening to jazz at a little concert. Feedback is appreciated, as always, and if you catch a spelling/grammatical mistake, feel free to tell me. 

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Raven


End file.
